


Through the gate

by hungerpunch



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungerpunch/pseuds/hungerpunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur goes through each room in his head and how he cleaned it, methodically and thoroughly, yesterday, so that it wouldn't reek of cleaning solution today. He wonders if Eames will see it and think he's trying too hard. He wonders if Eames will like it at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the gate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [larnbean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larnbean/gifts).



> Approximately a thousand years ago, I began this for [larnbean](http://archiveofourown.org/users/larnbean), in an attempt to cheer her up from a bad day. Beta'd by [nonmodernist](http://nonnonmodernist.tumblr.com) and [gollumgollum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gollumgollum), thank you darlings ♥

Once, Arthur had found airports fascinating; how contradictory, a place permanently for transit. Now, however, he finds them exhausting. A soul-sucking compilation of all his least favorite things: florescent lights, white walls, the smell of industrial cleaning supplies, advertisements, and people—thousands of people—who he doesn't know. He's well reminded of his dislike as he walks through the double-doors of the first airport he's been in in over three months; a new record for him since he was twenty years old.

(It's been eight years since then, since twenty, but depending on the day, it's ' _already_ eight years' or ' _only_ eight years' and they are two different things indeed.)

He forces his thoughts away from the pondering of such subject matter—age and time, things that inevitably turn disheartening. Arthur is not in the mood to indulge sadness. Not today.

He skirts the group of people idling below the incoming/outgoing screens, excusing himself around an elderly couple and their thousand bags of luggage, pausing just long enough in his steps to verify that Eames' flight is, yes, it is on time for arrival. Which is in about a half hour, but nobody else but Arthur has to know that it was all he could do to stop himself from getting here three hours ago, so eager has he been for today, for 4:40pm.

He locates the waiting area easily and takes a seat in one of the only remaining available chairs—hard, grey, plastic boxy things that were probably never designed for comfort. Arthur thinks he should have brought a crossword, a book of Sudoku, anything to keep himself distracted because he has a feeling these next thirty minutes are going to pass slow as fuck. In effort to keep his attention off the clock hanging overhead and the watch on his wrist, he lets his head fall back against the wall behind him. His eyes itch against the glare of the harsh lights, but he doesn’t close them. Habit.

He thinks of Eames, mid-air at the moment and probably antsy as all get out. The pilot's by now announced the plane's descending. Eames’ ears will be popping painfully, but Arthur knows he won't make a show of it. He realizes he's chewing his lower lip and makes himself stop, but the absence of motion forces his nerves inwards and he starts thinking about the apartment he left about an hour ago. The apartment with the exposed brick walls and finished hardwood floors; kitchen done in Provence style with vintage wooden cabinets and warm stone counter tops, herbs hanging in a basket on the wall; ceilings a wash of saffron intersected by dark support beams—except for in the bedroom, where the ceiling's been left open and white to offset the Maya blue walls for a spacious effect.

Arthur goes through each room in his head and how he cleaned it, methodically and thoroughly, yesterday, so that it wouldn't reek of cleaning solution today. He wonders if Eames will see it and think he's trying too hard. He wonders if Eames will like it at all. Will he like the worn leather armchair? The deluxe plasma flat screen TV? Will he think the juxtaposition of the old and the new too harsh? Will he scoff at Arthur's bookshelves, somehow inferior? No, Arthur knows, Eames wouldn't condescend to him at this point. His bookshelves are safe, at least, until Eames finds his stash of high fantasy novels on the top shelves, which will only incite friendly teasing. Arthur can take that.

He rolls his head a little against the wall and mentally moves out of his apartment and into his neighborhood. Arthur's own assessment is that it's charming without being what some would call quaint—a busy hub that's tucked just out of the heart of the city. It still draws plenty of traffic with its copious bars and bakeries, independent bookstores and cafes, clothing and furniture boutiques, two or three local markets dotting the corners. There's a cinema a few blocks north and an ice skating rink a few blocks west, a large public library in between. It's an urban lifestyle scaled down a bit, he thinks, where the streets are still paved with cobblestones here and there, and the streetlamps look like they're out of 1920s London. Arthur thinks it's perfect. He's hoping Eames doesn't find it boring.

When he starts to grind his teeth he blinks hard and goes through a breathing exercise because Eames has already agreed to this, everything is in accord, and if there's anything wrong they can be mature adults and talk it out and find a solution together. Nobody's running away, he tells himself.

It’s not as though he hasn’t got good reason to be slightly afraid, he figures. The few past experiences he has concerning shacking up with significant others—Martina, long black curls and Dunhills, in Bordeaux; Adam, fine wines and nervous tics, in New York—have been unfortunate and ended in drawn-out, messy break ups.

His thoughts start to unravel again. A month. It's been about a month. Which is easily one of the shorter time spans they've spent apart but...this particular month has had quite a bit riding on it.

"When I get back," Eames had whispered against the hollow of Arthur's throat in the pale morning light thrown through the chiffon curtains of the hotel window. "When I get back, I'm done for awhile, okay? I...let's try it. Us. Properly, yeah? You pick a place, I'll meet you there."

"Okay," Arthur had dimpled more than spoken, despite neither of them knowing how to do _properly_. Eames had kissed him, and that had been that.

And now he's here, waiting to take Eames to the place he picked (which he really picked a few years ago as a hideout for when he was still regularly active in dreamshare). This one month has been longer than many of the others they've endured.

Arthur absently gets out his phone and flips through the apps, but it doesn’t successfully pull him out of his head. He’s begun thinking about what will happen immediately after Eames arrives. He’ll be tired, Arthur knows, cranky from being cramped up and being served awful airplane food. He’ll smell like recycled air and taste like peanuts and champagne and unbrushed teeth. He’ll want a shower, probably, maybe a nap. Will he be hungry? They could go to Majestic, the little Greek restaurant in between the hair salon and the shop specializing in mystery novels. Or there’s a sandwich bar, if he’s in the mood for something less complicated. Or they could just order takeout. He might not even be hungry.

Arthur doesn’t notice he’s panicking until he’s scrolling through takeout places on his phone. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

4:40pm finally, finally comes and then it goes, and masses of people wash in through arrivals. Arthur chews his lips and reminds himself Eames has luggage he’ll need to be getting. It could easily be another twenty minutes, maybe even thirty.

But it’s not. It should be difficult to spot Eames, as he’s not especially tall, his winter coat is black and conservative just like everyone else’s, and he’s smack-dab in the middle of a frenzied group of incomers. And, despite Arthur’s assumptions, he’s walking along with merely a solitary satchel on his shoulder.

Arthur’s eyes find and track him like a magnet, though, effortless as always. Eames’ gaze seems to catch his at once, and he slows amidst the throng of people. Arthur controls the urge to grin like a maniac, feels the corner of his mouth lilt up, just the slightest bit; knows the tips of his ears are probably red.

It’s been a month. Eames looks like he hasn’t shaved in about as long and he’s wearing _black_ and the rings under his eyes are more pronounced than ever and it’s been a month. Arthur’s never liked the sight of him better. Eames starts towards him, and Arthur thinks if this were a movie there would be some grand run-and-jump, some cinematic, overwhelming kiss.

But there’s just the soft swipe of Eames’ loafers as he comes to a stop in front of Arthur, the crow’s feet of his eyes pinching together as he smiles. He pushes his elbow against Arthur’s, an innocuous gesture that conveys more patience than Arthur’s probably possessed in his entire life. “Hello,” Eames greets, simple. Because this _isn’t_ a movie, and even if they make it long enough to see proper retirement age, they will always be wary of eyes in the walls.

“Hello.” Arthur resists the urge to stuff his hands into his pockets and starts to rattle off their dinner options. Eames can probably see the nerves running through him plain as daylight—the only one who ever could pin down each and every one of Arthur’s tells—because he cuts him off.

“Arthur.”

Arthur blinks. “Yes?”

“Let’s just get home.”

Arthur can’t help the full-on smile then, at the fond tone of Eames’ weathered voice, and looks down at the ground to attempt to hide it for a moment before wondering why he’s bothering. He turns, smoothing a hand down the front of his button up. “Follow me, then, Mr. Eames.”

Eames hitches his satchel higher up his shoulder. “Anywhere, darling.”


End file.
